“How about a room?” she said.
Now he blinked. And she noticed a flicker of unease pass quickly through his eyes. Angie smiled, turned on by her own power to put that glimmer of wariness into a big man’s eyes. It shifted the traditional balance of power. In her line of work, the victims were nearly always female. Or children. Innocent children. And the aggressors were nearly always male. She continued to meet his gaze, waiting for him to process her question. When he did not reply, she grabbed her leather jacket off the back of the stool and started to negotiate her way through the throbbing dancers toward the red exit sign above the rear door.
His decision to come after her was swift. He caught up to her and grabbed her arm, stopping her, applying a little too much pressure. Large hand. Iron grip. A slight fear washed through her, and it excited her, awakened her. Slowly, she breathed in, calming herself, and then she turned to face him. Her heart skipped a beat at the sexual tension she saw tightening his features now, the darkening of his already dark-blue eyes.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“What do you think I mean?”
His grip remained firm on her upper arm, and his gaze lowered, taking her in—all of her. Her breasts, her hips, the length of her legs, her black biker boots. His pulse became visible at his carotid. Lifting his free hand, he touched her hair, which she wore long and loose tonight. Gently, he felt the texture of it, and then he lifted a fall of it to expose her neck. And he cupped the side of her neck, tracing his thumb along her jawline. Her vision blurred, legs felt weak. He lowered his head, bringing his mouth close to hers. “You’re cheap,” he whispered. “Why?”
Her lids flickered. “You ... don’t trust me because I’m free?”
“I don’t trust anyone.”
“If you’d rather waste your cash, try one of the ladies up on the stage.” She turned to leave.
But his grip only tightened on her arm. “Fine,” he murmured in her ear. “Let’s go.”
Red light pulsed into the motel room from the neon sign in the parking lot outside, setting the thin drapes aglow like a beating heart, like a crucible in a devil’s basement.Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.The bass of the music from the club could be heard through the thin walls, felt through the very floorboards, and it matched the throbbing pace of the neon. Somewhere, far off, a siren wailed. Ambulance, maybe cops, or fire. Society taking care of its citizens, policing.
The headboard thumped as Angie rode him in time to the bass thud coming through the walls, her blood hot, her skin slick. He was naked under her, and she’d zip-tied his wrists to the headboard above his head. Their clothes pooled on the old carpet, boots scattered across the room. She dug her nails into his skin as she fucked him with all her might, panting, sweating, breasts bouncing, obliterating all thoughts of the past months from her mind ... all the things she couldn’t do to save the kids ... her limits, her vulnerabilities. The toll this unit took on cops. The depravity she’d witnessed over the years. And just when she thought she’d seen it all, the job dished up yet something more.
He was blessed with a fucking big dick and she loved it, let it fill her. The hair on his chest was rough and dark, his body honed, skin pale like alabaster, carved marble. A Michelangelo masterpiece. That buried voice rose again into her consciousness.Something’s wrong here. Who is he? Why does he want this? Why did he come to this place when any woman would probably throw herself at his feet? No band on his ring finger, but a faint, telltale indentation of paler skin. Recently out of a relationship? Hiding it? Whichever way, this is not a man without history. Without relationships. What is wrong, deviant about him ...?
Angie shut out the voice, opened her thighs wider, and sank deeper onto his dick. She rocked her hips faster, filling herself, making herself hurt. She was close, so close, and he could feel it. He bucked under her, wilder, wilder, thrusting his cock up into her. She tried to pull back, to deny him full pleasure, but suddenly she froze, her entire body going rigid, as if in rigor. Her breath caught in her chest, and she held still a moment, red lights pulsing, bass beating. And suddenly, she came, her vision blurring, a cry suffocating in her throat as her muscles contracted and released in hot, rolling waves. She collapsed onto him, her breasts against his rough chest hair. He was still hard inside her as aftershocks continued to ripple around his erection.
A noise sounded in her jacket on the floor. Her phone—the familiar ringtone she’d set for Holgersen.Shit.
Angie tried to focus. She wasn’t on call. Not tonight. She’d booked the weekend off to help her dad with her mom.
The phone rang again. She reached down and groped along the floor for her jacket.
“Leave it.” His command was husky. Velvet on gravel. Surprisingly authoritative. “Untie me,” he said. “My turn.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. The call went to voicemail.
“Untie me.”
Angie looked up into his face. Something in his eyes whispered “danger.” The phone started to ring again. It had to be urgent. Holgersen, her new partner, would not contact her on her night off otherwise. Angie slid off the man’s cock and padded over to her jacket. She extracted her phone. Pushing a tangle of thick, damp hair off her face, she connected the call.
“Yeah,” she said, not using her name. She hadn’t given Mr.Big Dick her name, and had no intention of doing so either, so she wasn’t about to mention it while answering the phone.
“Party’s over, Pallorino,” came Holgersen’s oddly accented voice. “You and me got us a Jane Doe over at Saint Jude’s. Young—mid to late teens. Sexual assault. Paramedics picked her up in Ross Bay Cemetery. Critical condition. Nonresponsive.”
She glanced at Mr.Big D. He was watching her intently, listening, his hands still bound above his head. She turned her back to him, moved naked to the window. “What about the others?” she said quietly. “Dundurn and Smith? They’re on tonight.”
“Dundurn wants to pass it on. He and Smith have been on seventy-two hours straight with this flu bug hitting the department. And they’re still winding down on another call.” A pause. “He said you might want it. Could be your guy from the Fernyhough and Ritter cases. Except this time the mark has been carved into her forehead.”
Everything in her body went stone still. Her and Hash’s old cases. An unsolved thorn in Hash’s side—a repeat rapist who’d first come to their attention four years ago in the sexual assault of sixteen-year-old Sally Ritter, and then again a year later in an attack on Allison Fernyhough, fourteen. They never found him. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
“What are you, like in the States, or what? You coming by bicycle?”
“Handle whatever you can until I get there. Twenty minutes.”
She killed the call, grabbed her jeans, rammed her feet into the legs, and shimmied them up her hips. Pulling her shirt on quickly, she scooped her hair back and twisted it into a tight ponytail at the nape of her neck. Angie yanked on her boots, reached for her leather jacket, and paused, looking at the man tied to the motel room bed. His sheathed penis glistened, not near going flaccid. Nice. A warm rush flushed through her. Her gaze tracked up his body. He was watching her—analyzing her. Oddly calm and in control for a man bound naked to a bed. She met his eyes.
He jerked his chin to his groin. “We have unfinished business,” he said.
